I am a huge fan of Susanne Collins. I loved The Underland chronicles before anyone ever heard of the Hunger Games. I've decided to write a fanfic for the Hunger Games to hone my writing skills and for my own enjoyment and hopefully yours. This is my first fanfic ever. The characters and their personal situations are mine, but the concept of the Hunger Games is, of course, Susan Collin's. Without the world that she built, that is so perfectly set up for new stories to be written in, and a perfect textbook for the genre, I could have never created this story.

Morphling

Part 1: The Tributes

Chapter 1

I cannot will myself to get out of bed. My body aches from severe withdrawal symptoms that kept me awake the entire night. Through the barred window, sunbeams stream into the bedroom onto my exposed skin. The cold sweat covering my body glistens with refracted light. My mind is tormented with opposing thoughts. Part of me wants nothing more than to grab the syringe beside my bed. The other part of me, the real part of me, holds back the urge. I have to stop using morphling. I'm pregnant.

My thoughts revolve in a perfect circle. I need morphling, but it will hurt my baby. I'm pregnant because I'm repeatedly raped. Morphling is the only thing that helps me cope. I need morphling, but it will hurt my baby.

I am unwillingly betrothed to a man named Monrad. During our arranged courting, I started using morphling. It kept me from going insane. Now it's making me insane. Even though I stopped using, since I realized I'm pregnant, I still hallucinate; a common side affect of the painkiller. One second everything is normal, and then objects appear as if they are painted; not just a different color, but not real anymore. A tree will transform into fluid brushstrokes. The ground will swirl with fluid, opaque complimentary colors. Thick flesh-toned oils will drip from a face made of canvas.

I have to get out of bed. But not to work at Syntec: Pharmaceutical and Medical supply, I am no longer their employee. When I became betrothed to Monrad, he forbade me to work. I don't know where he is now, probably passed out drunk somewhere. I have to get out of bed because today is the Reaping. Attendance is required. Monrad has to let me out today.

I would rather work in a factory for the rest of my life than be engaged to that pervert. If I were not pregnant, I would hope to be among the chosen at the Reaping. I would surely die and my pain would be over.

If I could run away, I would, but I'm locked in this house. If I somehow managed to get out, a 50-foot cement wall, with armed guards in watchtowers, surrounds District 6. The guards are called Peacekeepers. A more correct term for them is prison guards. My husband-to-be, Monrad, is a high-ranking Peacekeeper. He's also a past Victor of the Hunger Games. He doesn't patrol the District or even carry a weapon like most Peacekeepers. He sits on his fat ass all day doing paper work and telling everyone else what to do.

Arranged marriages are law in District 6, but they only pertain to government officials like Peacekeepers. People can marry anyone they like. However, one can do nothing when a peacekeeper wants a woman, even if she is already married. She must be at least 15 years old as a rule. I'm 16.

Every married couple, even those arranged, must apply to have children. One boy and one girl are allotted. Not every married couple is approved. Population quantity is strictly controlled in District 6. There are currently about 4500 people trapped here.

To have a child out of wedlock is punishable by death. An illegal pregnancy, if discovered by the government, results in forced abortion. The only exception is for Victors and their families. As long as I'm with Monrad, my baby will not be taken from me. This offers me little consolation. Nobody knows that I'm pregnant. I don't know how to tell Monrad. I'm scared of how he might react. Even though it is legally allowed, I'm sure that he doesn't want it.

Monrad chose me after his first three wives committed suicide. I had been living in the Syntec housing unit, only allowed to see my mother, father and younger brother on the weekends. Three months ago, four peacekeepers were waiting for me when I finished my Friday shift. They took me to Monrad's home in the Victor's Village and I haven't left since. I can't leave. I'm a prisoner here. My parents can do nothing. Neither can Lane.

Lane was my boyfriend, but I haven't seen him since Monrad took me. Lane and I were abstinent. We were waiting for marriage, but also scared of what would happen if I got pregnant. However, the extent of our relationship was secret. Courting, no matter how innocent, is illegal until the age of 18 with the exception of government arrangements.

I don't know a time when I didn't know Lane. We were in the same day-care when our parents were working. We went through school together and graduated when we were 12-years-old. That's when all children are placed in the workforce. They are sent to wherever work they are needed at the time. Lane and I were both sent to Syntec. We sat side-by-side, line inspecting and assembling various medical supplies. Our mother's also work for Syntec, but in a different wing, producing pharmaceuticals like morphling and other medicines. Both of our fathers work in the transport factory. One of these three options is where most children are sent to work for their entire remaining life. It's all line work no matter where they end up. The Capitol employs the supervisors. The specialized workers, like engineers and scientists, are permanently relocated from other districts; a select few are from District 6 if they show exceptional potential in school or at work, but most people don't get the chance to display talent.

School was mostly to get children used to waking up early, going somewhere they would rather not be, completing mindless tasks all day, then returning home with barely enough time to sleep and start over the next day. Behavior conditioning. Much of the time at school was spent on simple packing lines, placing medical supplies in small plastic bags to be shipped to the Capitol or assembling small transport parts; any task that would benefit from the efficiency of many small hands.

I was very fortunate to have Lane as a friend. No matter what we were doing, in school or work, we could make it enjoyable and make the time slip by just by talking. He could make me laugh at any time. Even if I was in an especially bad mood, it only took Lane a few words to make me smile.

For the first few weeks of my imprisonment, I fought Monrad. He beat me and forced me. I made my mind go numb. In between incidents, I clung on to the hope that I would break free somehow and see Lane again. With every passing day, I realize more what a foolish dream that is. I belong to Monrad. I turned to morphling. It's readily available in District 6, pharmaceuticals being one of the main industries. All I had to do was ask and Monrad acquired the drug for me. In his position, it was easy. He knows why I want it and is glad I'm finally submitting. My bruises from the beatings are still evident although they are subsiding now that I do not fight him anymore.

My mental anguish is worse than any of the beatings. I have to endure Monrad without the aid of the morphling now that I know I'm pregnant. Added to the withdrawal symptoms I do not know how much more pain I can take. I've found a way to take my mind to another place, to ignore what is happening to me. I have started thinking of Lane again to help cope, but it's a fantasy rather than a hopeful dream. A part of me still longs for him, but the other part of me, the real part of me, wonders why he would want me anymore.

I sit up and reach my toes. That causes my head to ache more than my body. I'm still trembling. If I don't do something to distract myself, I will give in to my addiction. The fact that I have not disposed of the syringe or the morphling scares me. It's like I know I'll fold eventually and will need it to be there. I swing my legs off the bed and put my head between my knees, trying to control the tremors. I was freezing a second ago, now I'm burning up. I walk to the bathroom and turn the shower to cold. As I stand under the frigid deluge, my mind is relieved of burdens for just a few seconds. The lock on the bedroom door unlatches. The urge to run to the morphling overtakes me.

I snatch the syringe off the bed stand. It's like someone else is controlling my body. I know it's just my own impulses, but I can't fight them anymore. With my free hand, I slap the inside of my other arm a few times to make the vein more prominent, easier to find with the needle.

"Zara, what are you doing?" says a familiar but unexpected voice.

My eyes search the door. I quickly throw down the syringe and cover myself with the bed sheets. It's my father.

"What, how?" I say.

"Monrad is dead."

It takes a few seconds for this to register. I put on my bathrobe that lay on the bed and I run to my father, embracing him. Neither of us says anything for a minute, moistening each other's shoulders with tears.

"We have to go now. There's a car waiting for us outside." My father says.

"Where are we going?"

"We have to leave the district with your mother and Kyle. There isn't much time."

"Where?"

"Away from here."

"How are we going to get out?"

"It's all arranged. Come now."

The keys jingle in my father's hand and I remember the lock turning.

"How did you get those? Did you…"

"I'll explain later, we have to go, now."

My father leads me downstairs by the hand and through the front door. At the end of the paved walkway, a four-passenger transport sits on the street. My mother and brother are sitting in the back seat. My mother, hysterical, gets out and runs to me.

"Janice, stay in the car. We have to go now."

Father grabs her arm and puts us both in the car. I'm in the front passenger seat, my mother returned to the back. My little brother is sobbing uncontrollably. Mother holds him in her arms and stares at me, tears streaming down her face.

"What happened? Did you kill him?" I say to my father.

I have never felt such freedom and such terror simultaneously.

Father glances at me, but says nothing as the transport speeds away.

"We're all going to be executed, " I say.

"The Gatekeeper will let us through, we made a deal."

"You made a deal?" I scream.

Another silent glance.

"You're going to get us all killed," I scream again, "What were you thinking?" I would not normally take this tone of voice with my father, but I'm not myself. The morphling withdrawal and the current situation are making me extremely irritable.

"I would have came sooner, but I had to make sure the plan would work. I gave almost everything we have in exchange for a way out of here. We're going to District 13."

"District 13 is destroyed," I say.

The silent glances are really adding to my upset.

"We can't go yet. I have to say goodbye to Lane."

"I'm sorry honey, but there isn't enough time. Things didn't work out exactly as I planned."

"What do you mean didn't work out?" I seriously contemplate jumping out of the moving transport.

"I didn't plan on," father glances at Kyle in the rear view mirror, "on Monrad's death."

This time I give the silent glare.

"He found out about my plan," father says.

"So you just killed him? I mean, I can't say I'll miss him, but now you're a murderer."

"It will be fine, we just need to get to District 13."

"Fine? What's there to get to? It's nothing but ruins."

District 13 was obliterated during the first uprising against the Capitol. Has my father gone insane? Maybe I'm hallucinating all this.

"I don't know for sure. Some say it's a refuge, that there are survivors rebuilding a free society; free from the Capitol."

I always knew that my father did not support the Capitol, not many people do. But I never thought he would take it to this extreme. I guess losing me was all he could take.

We approach the main gate out of District 6. A Peacekeeper walks up to the transport, looks at father and waves to a Peacekeeper in the control tower.

The gate slowly opens, wide double doors swinging outward.

The Peacekeepers wave us through.

As we begin to cross the threshold, a hovercraft materializes in front of us. I don't know if it's real. It looks like it's being painted in the air. Father stops the transport. Machinegun fire from the hovercraft takes out all the peacekeepers at the gate. Now I know it's real. Father throws the transport in reverse, but we only move a few feet before an electro-magnetic blast from the hovercraft shuts the car down. A dozen Capitol Guards, from the city that controls all 12 Districts, rappel from the hovercraft on thin cables like so many spiders. I can't even think about opening the doors of the transport to make a run for it before the Guards surround us.

They open the driver's door of the transport and take father out. He doesn't struggle. One last silent glance is his only goodbye, but I see the regret and apology in his eyes. A harness is quickly attached to father and he is hoisted into the hovercraft. Some of the Capitol Guards take the place of the District 6 Peacekeepers that were eliminated for treason. Others file into the District. My mother, my brother and I are escorted away from the gate and along the street. I hear distant gunfire. Surely it's the Capitol Guards eliminating anyone that was in on the rescue and escape attempt. Every second I'm convinced will be my last, but we arrive safely at our home.

I sit on the couch with my knees together. Hugging myself, bent forward, I try to control the tremors. My mother sits next to me and wraps a blanket and her arms around my shoulders. She weeps softly, but does not say a word. I haven't told her that I'm a morphling addict or why. She's knows why and can recognize the symptoms. Morphlings, the name given to those addicted to morphling, are common enough in District 6.

Under all the pain, I'm glad to be home, but something isn't right about being here. We tried to escape the district, all of us. Why did they only take father? Why did they let the rest of us come back to our home? The Guards left without saying a word once we were all in the house.

My brother locks himself in his room. I can hear him sobbing. He's been through more today than any 12-year-old boy should. If witnessing the murder of Monrad at the hands of our father, the failed escape attempt, father's arrest and our forced march home wasn't enough, today will be his first Reaping.

Kyle has been to the Reapings before, once for every year of his life. It is mandatory unless a mortal illness keeps you bedridden. But this is the first year he is eligible to be chosen as a tribute. To be one of the chosen is almost certain death. Even with the slim chance of being chosen, approximately 1 in 500 this year, every child fears the Reaping. Someone has to be chosen. Someone is always chosen.

"The Reaping is in twenty minutes," my mother says, her voice barely audible.

I don't want to go, all I want is morphling, but we all have to go. Imprisonment or execution is the only other option, usually the latter. Although I am happy to be free of Monrad, I am terrified for my baby. With Monrad dead, I am no longer exempt from the law. My baby will be taken from me as soon as the government realizes that I'm pregnant. I have to find a way out of District 6. I will raise my baby in the wilderness if I have to. Even though I don't know how much of a chance of success I have at that, it's a better option than staying here. Maybe If I escape I can make it to District 13. My father thinks it's safe there, or at least he was willing to risk everything to find out. I couldn't leave my mother and brother behind. We all have to go, but father is a prisoner, if he's even still alive. It seems hopeless. I start to think of Lane, but morphling soon consumes my thoughts.

The Reaping takes place in the town square. We arrive a few minutes before noon, starting time. A few stragglers are late, some escorted by Peacekeepers. The twelve-to-eighteen-year-olds gather in front of the stage constructed yearly for this occasion. Parents and those without children stand behind the group.

I'm near the middle of the group and I'm shaking so hard that I can barely stand. I'm sure people notice my discomfort but they can't be sure if it's caused by morphling or fear of the Reaping. My skin hasn't started to take on the tell tale signs of a morphling yet: yellow and saggy. I see people trembling almost as much as I am. I'm drenched in sweat and I feel like I'm going to freeze to death despite the heat of the day. Three chairs sit on the stage. Mayor Ford occupies the middle chair. To his left sits Eunice Adamant, the Capitol's escort. The third chair is empty. It's reserved for the last Victor, who can't occupy it, because he's dead.

The mayor stands and turns on the microphone. Feedback assaults the ears of everyone for a few seconds. He clears his voice and begins to speak of the history of Panem, the nation that encompasses the districts, headed by the Capitol. His speech is a tradition and is the same every year. He speaks briefly of the nuclear war that ended what was once known as North America, and how the remaining survivors united to build the nation of Panem. He goes on to relate the founding of the 13 districts and how they rebelled against the Capitol, biting the hand that fed them. He laughs at his own remark. He speaks of the Dark Days during the rebellion and the climax when the Capitol was forced to annihilate District 13. He concludes by describing the creation of the Hunger Games and why they were created: so we never forget who is in power and whom we owe our lives to.

After the Dark Days, the Treaty of Treason was created to give us new laws to ensure peace; laws that govern population control, food consumption, housing, employment and recreation. The Hunger Games is the only form of public sport in Panem. Each year, the Capitol chooses, by lottery, two contestants to participate in the Hunger Games from each of the 12 Districts: one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18. All 24 Tributes, as they are called, are taken to a vast arena in the wilderness. The object of the game: be the last one alive. Weapons of many types are provided to aid in the massacre. Wilderness survival supplies are also available. The winner and the winner's family live the rest of their lives in luxury. They are provided a home in the Victor's village of their district and extra food rations are allotted to all the citizens of the Victor's district for that year. With the laws governing food consumption, no one receives nearly enough to eat. Some districts are so stricken with hunger that dying of starvation is not uncommon.

The only obligation of the Victor is that he or she mentors all the future Tributes from his or her District until one of them becomes a Victor. This year and until District 6 turns out a Victor, the tributes will have to do without a mentor. Monrad was the only living District 6 Victor. Lack of a mentor usually makes it much more difficult for the Tributes to survive. The mentor can be of great help during training, but most importantly, the mentor is the Tribute's link to Sponsors. Gifts can be given, by Sponsors, to the Tributes during the Games to help them succeed, although the gifts are extremely expensive. The mentor must approve sponsorship.

The sickest thing about the Games is that they are televised. Viewing is mandatory for all citizens of Panem, even in the Capitol. The citizens of the Capitol enjoy watching the Games. It's the highlight of their year. Nobody is hungry in the Capitol nor do they perform hard manual labor. Their days are consumed by entertainment, fashion, rich food and excess of everything. It is customary for citizens of the Capitol to place bets on which Tribute will be the Victor.

My stomach turns and I wonder if it's from the withdrawal symptoms or thinking about the perversity in the Capitol. I wretch and much of it runs down the brown robe that I still wear. To me, the vomit looks like bright blue paint. It's in my hair and I feel it running down my neck. I wipe my face and the front of my robe with the blanket and turn the inside out, wrapping it tighter around myself. People close by give me a wider berth.

Eunice takes the microphone. She is wearing an elegant dress covered in thousands of diamonds. Jewelry dangles from nearly every part of her head. Her face must be pierced one hundred times. It's difficult to guess her age. Maybe 40. She introduces herself, speaking in a very serious and grave tone. It is very out of character for her. She is generally cheerful, catering to the audience in the Capitol. This event is televised. She speaks of the murder of Monrad. The crowd, quiet with fear until now, starts to stir. Uncomfortable chatter starts to spread. Not many people knew until now.

"Silence," Eunice screams.

The crowd obeys.

"This year the Tributes of District 6 will not have a mentor. As you know, this greatly reduces the Tributes chance for survival. I assure you that the perpetrator is punished accordingly."

My father is dead. He must have been executed. I knew this already, but hearing Eunice speak of it brings fresh tears. At least she doesn't mention my father's name.

The weather turns to rain. The only shelter from it is the canopy above the stage. Eunice continues with her traditional speech, much more light-hearted, as if she's already forgotten what she had just spoken of. It makes me feel more terror. Something is not right.

A hand touches my shoulder. I turn my head and look up. It's Lane. I'm paralyzed for a moment, and then Lane embraces me. I give in to intense sobbing and shivering, but I try to stay silent to not draw any more attention to myself. However, I am not the only person crying and being held for comfort. Many people are attempting to console one another. Lane kisses the top of my head, an act that could result in punishment if noticed. He holds me and says nothing. The rain soaks our clothes and hair as we embrace. I'm relieved from all burdens for just a few seconds.

Impulsively, because I can't contain the truth anymore, I look up at him and say, "I'm pregnant."

He understands how. He stays silent. He holds me tighter.

I vaguely hear Eunice announcing that the time for choosing Tributes has come. All I can think about is getting back home and figuring out what I'm going to do about everything, about my baby.

Eunice picks the names out of two bowls, one for the girl, one for the boy. She unfolds the little scraps of paper and reads them both.

"Oh my, what a coincidence. The Tributes for the 26th annual Hunger Games are: Zara and Kyle Green."

It's been rigged. It's obvious. Punishment for what my father did. I step back from Lane. His clothes look like they are thickly painted on his body and are starting to crack and peel off in chunks. Dread washes over me, then a strange calmness; at least I know my fate now. I turn and automatically walk towards the stage. My baby will die. Perhaps that is better. To bring a child into this world is cruel.

As I ascend the stairs leading to the stage, I hear a voice call out from the crowd.

"I volunteer as Tribute."

It is allowed.

Eunice smiles.

Lane walks up to the stage.

Thank you for your inspiring and constructive comments.

Chapter 2 is finished and will be posted soon.